


Sins of the Father: Redux

by daroh



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Universe, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s02e08 The Sins Of The Father, Gen, Merlin's feelings for Arthur are implied but it's true to the portrayal of the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh
Summary: What should have happened when Arthur had his blade to Uther's chest.





	Sins of the Father: Redux

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta/support/cheerleader [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom)! I couldn't write without you! Thank you, too, to the mods. This fest was an amazing idea and I'm so pleased to be a part of it! Thanks to Merlin Chatzy, too, for making me aware of the fest, encouraging me to sign up, and being generally a helluva supportive group. 
> 
> I love this episode tremendously. I hope I've done it justice with this divergence/correction. Merlin is the property of BBC and Shine. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

Merlin and Arthur hurriedly ride up to the castle and dismount. Arthur runs up the stairs with Merlin calling after him, “What are you going to do?” Arthur doesn’t answer as he disappears into the castle.

Gaius approaches Merlin, who stands at the foot of the stairs, trying to fathom Arthur’s intentions. He'd hardly spoken on the hard ride back to Camelot.

“Merlin, I’m glad to see you’re safe. Where’s Arthur?” Gaius asks.

Merlin storms around the old man, irritated, betrayed. He stops in a corner of the courtyard and waits for Gaius to catch up.

He is brooding, angry, but there’s no time to work his way up to the confrontation. “Arthur was born of magic, wasn’t he?” he demands, looking Gaius in the eye. Gaius lowers his head in admonishment, and Merlin continues, “Uther used magic.”

“Merlin—”

“All those people he’s executed, he’s as guilty as they are! He sacrificed Arthur’s mother! He as good as murdered her!” Saying the words makes the reality of them even harder to bear, and he thinks of Arthur trying to process this same information.

Gaius only blinks in response, head still bowed.

Merlin turns away from him to face the open courtyard. “People should know the truth about what he’s done.” He paces, his anger only growing. “How could you not tell me?” he demands. Disappointment and betrayal weigh on his features like years.  

“I feared what Arthur would do if he ever found out.”

“Well, he’s found out now,” Merlin says tersely, and races up the stairs and into the castle, aware that his own rage must be only a fraction of the torment that Arthur is feeling.

He runs through the corridors as fast as he can, making his way to the throne room, where he’s been told the king is to be found. Leon stands outside the large oaken doors, guarding the entrance.

Merlin tries to force his way through, but Leon is strong and determined. It’s absurd in the face of what’s going on inside, but Leon is only doing his duty.

“They’re going to kill each other!” he yells, putting all of the earnest pleading he can into his voice. Thankfully, Leon knows Merlin, knows his love of Arthur above all else, and he trusts him. He releases his hold, and Merlin bursts into the room.

The sight that greets him is terrifying: Arthur stands over the throne where Uther cowers, held at the sharp point of his son’s sword. The room smells of sweat and fear and anger, and Merlin can only imagine the argument that’s brought them to this pinnacle of crisis, Uther’s fate in Arthur’s hands.

“Arthur, don’t!” Merlin shouts. “I know you don’t want to do this!”

He can see that Arthur is shaking with rage, his face racked with pain in an open-mouthed grimace. “My mother is _dead_ because of him!” Arthur cries, and Merlin knows, knows that this is the truth that they’ve learned together but that Arthur must say now anyway, because it’s all there is. His voice is wrecked and his tears spill freely. It’s the most wretched and betrayed Merlin has ever seen him, and he wants to comfort him. He needs to help Arthur, to bring him back from this brink of desperate vengeance.

He swallows, hoping to steady his own voice. He needs to sound reassuring, persuasive in what he says next. Arthur will listen to him. He’s waiting for Merlin, even, won’t act without Merlin’s approval, now that he’s here. Maybe he’s even been waiting for him to come in the room. Who knows how long he’s been holding Uther at swordpoint in this way? The thought would be sweet if it weren’t also so heartbreaking.

“Killing your father won’t bring her back,” Merlin says. “You’ve lost one parent. Do you really want to lose another?”

Arthur needs his father, Merlin knows, no matter how awful a parent or king the man is. But this isn’t about Uther; not really. It’s not even about Ygraine.

“Listen to him, Arthur,” Uther says.  

Merlin flinches, and he notices Gaius now standing near Leon in the arched doorway. He turns back to the scene at the front of the room, wishing Uther would stay silent. He’d like to kill the man himself, and he knows no one needs reminding of the king’s hypocritical authority at the moment. 

He’s glad that Arthur ignores Uther, and he tries to do the same. He’s going to keep talking as if it’s just the two of them there, because in some ways—in the most important ways—it is.    

“Arthur, please, put the sword down,” he says. It is a request made on his own behalf, for both of them, really. For them and for their future. Albion cannot be born of vengeance, of regicide.   

Arthur does not lower the sword, but Merlin can tell by the small settling of his shoulders that he’s calmer, that he’s listening. He wants to be convinced not to do this, Merlin is sure, despite his presumed duty to avenge his mother’s death.

“You heard what my mother said,” Arthur counters. “After everything he has done, do you believe he deserves to live? He executes those who use magic and yet he has used it himself!” He focuses more keenly on Uther, pushing the sword’s point more firmly against his chest. “ _You_ have caused so much suffering and pain! I will put an end to that.”

Somewhere deep in Merlin’s soul, he is rooting for the sword to plunge in, to sink deep into the king’s chest, to extinguish his hateful life and end his genocidal reign. He needs to stay focused on Arthur, though, because no part of him wants Arthur to do this. It’s not in Arthur to kill the only parent he’s ever known, the man whose love and respect he’s been trying to earn his entire life. Arthur would be ruined by such an act. One burst of anger, one press of the sword, and Arthur’s whole future would crumble to dust. He may as well be stabbing himself for the way it would destroy him.  

Merlin speaks, his voice solemn and measured. “Arthur, killing him will make you no better than him.”

“Yes—it will! I am not using magic to kill him. I’m avenging my mother’s death, and the death of the hundreds of innocent people he has killed in his war on magic!”

“No, Arthur. Magic has brought you here. You’re using it as evidence. If you kill him now, you will never forgive yourself.”

Arthur might be swayed by Merlin’s argument, but there’s no time to tell. Uther quickly interjects himself into the debate once more, reminding everyone of his treachery. “Arthur, please, listen to him.”  

Arthur is shaking with the decision. Merlin can feel waves of anger pouring off of him, and it’s terrible, terrible to witness.

“Swear to me it isn’t true,” Arthur demands, raising the hilt of the sword a little higher in emphasis, “that you are not responsible for my mother’s death! Give me your word!”

“I swear on my life I loved your mother,” Uther says, as if this in itself is a confession. “There isn’t a day passes that I don’t wish she were still alive. I could never have done anything to hurt her.”

“But did you use magic on her?” Arthur persists, not allowing Uther’s evasions. “Did you cause her death?”

“Arthur—” Merlin warns. He can tell Arthur will not back down unless Uther lies to him. He is not sure what Uther will do. He is as tense as he’s ever been, watching and waiting, unsure how—or even if—to intervene.  

“I loved her, Arthur. I didn’t know...I didn’t know her life was the price. I didn’t know, and I will never forgive myself for what happened to her.” Uther holds Arthur’s gaze, contrite and pleading. He seems to trust in the goodness in Arthur, even though he has had no part in the nurturing of it.

Before Merlin knows what is happening, the blade is plunging into Uther’s chest, and blood is spilling out, pulsing from the wound and onto the stones at the foot of the throne.

Arthur leans into the sword. He looms over his father and grits out through a tightly clenched jaw, “This is for her, my mother, who I never knew, and for all of the others since who’ve died wrongly at your hands for her sake!” He pulls the blade free and stands up, his cheeks burning and streaked with falling tears.

Merlin sees Gaius step closer but not quite reach the bleeding king, who gapes soundlessly at Arthur and the bloodsoaked blade.

Arthur looks at Merlin, who stands stunned, stock-still.

Arthur blinks, then casts a quick look at Gaius. “See to him,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the throne. He turns on his heel and marches quickly out of the hall.

No one, not even Merlin, follows him.

Merlin hurries to the throne. He kneels over the king, who is still alive, shock and sadness registering clear in his eyes. Merlin whispers “ _hnaepplan_ ,” his eyes flashing gold, and Uther falls unconscious.

“Can you save him?” Gaius asks, looking as guilty as if he himself had driven in the blade.

“I can try.”

He holds his hands over the wound and closes his eyes. He calls on his magic to heal the wound, to stop the fatality of it, at the very least. He doesn’t know the exact spell to use, but he’s better at indirect healing anyway.  He knows he cannot draw on his own love of Uther—he has none, after all—so he thinks of Arthur, of Arthur needing his father, needing not to have killed him.

Except, when Merlin’s magic reaches into the wound, he can tell that Arthur hasn’t killed him; the blade missed the king’s heart, piercing just above it.

A smile crosses Merlin’s face as he realizes what Arthur’s done, that the very thing that kept him from aiming the blade at Uther’s heart is what will make him a great king. It’s what makes him Arthur.

He mumbles a small healing spell, just to ensure the wound will not become infected and kill him in some other way. He draws away from the king and stands up.

Uther’s staccatoed breathing evens out, and blood stops seeping from the gash. Gaius looks at Merlin, half-amazed but full of gratitude, and nods. “Thank you.”  

“It wasn’t me that saved him,” Merlin says.

Gaius looks more closely at the site of the blade’s penetration. It’s hard to analyze through the layers of kingly clothing, but he must surmise enough. He looks back up at Merlin. “Thank you, all the same,” he says. Merlin isn’t sure exactly what Gaius is grateful for—helping the king, forgiving the secrecy, or something else entirely—but he answers with a small nod.

Gaius calls Leon over to coordinate Uther’s transfer to his chambers, and Merlin hurries off in search of Arthur. He has no idea what state he will find him in.

He looks in the courtyard, the stables, the training field, Arthur’s chambers, and even Morgana’s, but only finds him, finally, on the roof of the castle. He’s alone, gazing between two turrets at an expanse of forest to the east of the lower town.

Merlin walks towards him, but Arthur seems unreachable somehow, unapproachable, even, so he stops a few feet shy of his mark.

Arthur does not look at him. “Does he live?” he asks, his voice cold and unwelcoming. It hurts Merlin, but he knows Arthur’s anger is not directed at him.  

“He does, sire,” he answers, hoping Arthur will soften his tone.

Arthur does not even nod. “That’ll be all,” he says.  

Merlin cannot leave him like this. “Arthur, I—”

“I said, that will be all. You are dismissed.”

Merlin is not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to leave Arthur alone, but he can see that this is not a time to test his patience or challenge his authority.  

“Yes, sire.”

Merlin retreats to the castle door, but hesitates before going through. Arthur does not move, does not turn to watch him go, or even check that he does. It hurts, but more than that, it is worrying.   

Merlin goes to Arthur’s rooms. He lights a fire in the hearth and gets a tray of food and a jug of watered wine to set on the table, ready for Arthur’s return. He fluffs the pillows and bedding, hoping to make the room seem warm and inviting, and Camelot so by extension. He wonders if Arthur’s newfound knowledge of what happened in the castle twenty years before is corroding his whole sense of his home. Merlin cannot let that happen.  

When Arthur finally enters much later that night, Merlin is still waiting. He stands as soon as the door opens. When Arthur sees him, he pauses, but then continues into the room and closes the door.

Merlin hurries to him, instinctively helping Arthur out of the armor he still wears. His hands find the first clasp at Arthur’s shoulder, grateful for something with which to busy himself, and for an excuse to be near him.

Arthur is quiet, and Merlin is grateful that he has not turned him away, that he’s letting Merlin attend to him. He can tell that they will talk; he just needs to occupy them both until Arthur is ready. Merlin is not worried. He can fiddle with chainmail for hours when he needs to.

When Arthur is stripped of his armor and tunic, had his torso, chest and back rinsed with a cloth and fresh water, and been dressed in clean, soft trousers and shirt, he finally sits at the table. The plate of food is waiting for him, but he shows no interest in it. Merlin pours some wine into a goblet and offers it to him.

Arthur finally meets his gaze. “How is he?” he asks.

“He will recover. Gaius is tending to him.”

“Where is he?”

“In his chambers.”

Arthur nods and takes the goblet from Merlin’s hand. “I’m not sure if I wanted him to survive or not.”

“Yes, you are,” Merlin says, his voice low.

“He killed my mother. I owe it to her to avenge her death. I have not been able to do even that for her.” He puts the cup down and pushes it away, not having taken a sip.  

“Vengeance is not what she would ask of you,” Merlin says, stepping closer. “I think you know that. She gave you the gifts of mercy and kindness, and those are more honorable than murder, no matter how justified.” He wants to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder or let his fingers graze through Arthur’s hair, to soothe him, but he resists the impulse.      

Arthur looks up at him again. “How do you know?” he asks. “How do you know what she would have me do? We don’t even know that that was her.”

Merlin takes a breath. He can’t let Arthur lose the one memory of his mother he’s ever been granted. “It was her, Arthur. You know it was.”

“Morgause is a sorceress. She probably wanted me to turn against my father. She could have cast a spell, some kind of illusion that looked like my mother and spoke false words.”

“She could have, but she didn’t.” Merlin wants to say more, to spill it all out about his own magic, about how he could feel that Morgause had breached the veil and summoned Ygraine’s actual spirit, but Arthur has had too traumatic a day already. Merlin needs to comfort him now, not shock him further.  

“It did feel real. It felt true,” Arthur concedes. “But how do you know? You sound so sure.” Arthur stands up and steps closer to Merlin, whose tension heightens with the proximity.

“I am sure. It was your mother, and she meant it when she said she would sacrifice herself again for your sake.” Merlin bows his head, wanting to convey his own allegiance and submission, his own willingness to sacrifice everything for Arthur.

“How?” Arthur insists, placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin looks up and finds Arthur’s gaze intent on him, the blue of his eyes deep and unwavering, seeking but not unkind. “When we got back,” Merlin says, feeling his throat work to find more words, “I asked Gaius if the story was true.”

Arthur maintains their stare, but his eyes are looking watery again. Merlin feels him squeeze his shoulder, sees his lips press together in determination. “So that is how I was born.”

“Yes.”

Arthur stands silent, frozen. His eyes shift to the corner of the room, but they are the only part of him that moves. After a moment, he shakes his head, and Merlin feels Arthur’s hand fisting the fabric of his jacket and tunic. He wants to respond, to grab Arthur, too, to help him, but he does not.

“I’ve been taught to hate and fear magic my whole life,” Arthur grits out, “and I wouldn’t even _be_ here without it. How does that make sense?” Tears spill down his cheeks as he continues. “How many magic users have I killed? And all for not knowing about my own birth. My own _birth_ , Merlin, has caused the deaths of hundreds, including my mother!”

“I know, Arthur, but those deaths are not your fault. You are not to blame.”

“I am!”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin says, grasping the arm that holds fast to his own shoulder, finally allowing himself to return Arthur’s touch. “How could you have known? Your father would never tell you, and he’d forbidden anyone else from doing so.”

After a long moment, Arthur agrees, sounding defeated. “You’re right.” He brushes the back of his free hand against his face as the other one falls from Merlin’s shoulder. He begins to walk towards the window. Merlin lets his fingers linger on Arthur’s arm as long as they can until it slips out of reach. He feels the loss of the connection keenly.

Arthur stands in front of the window, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares out in contemplation. Merlin feels bereft, as though Arthur will never look at him again, but he knows this is a foolish worry.

“I needed a sorceress to tell me,” Arthur says.  

Everything feels fragile, on the brink of shattering, but Merlin hopes that's just his own overreaction. After all, Uther lives, Arthur finally has a memory of his mother, and the sun will rise again on Camelot tomorrow. “Is that so bad?” he asks, somewhat sheepishly.

“No; thank God she did.”

Relief sweeps over Merlin. “And she gave you a chance to talk to your mother, to hold her and have her see you and know you, and for you to know that she’s proud of you, Arthur.”

Arthur’s shoulders sag. “Would she be now, for almost killing my father?” He turns to face Merlin, and Merlin feels reconnected to the world, to hope, just from the blue of Arthur’s eyes meeting his own, seeking Merlin’s reassurance once more.  

“I’m sure she understands,” Merlin declares.

“I hope so.” Arthur looks back out the window. “And I hope he lives. It needs to be him who overturns the laws on magic. It needs to be him who apologizes for the atrocities he has committed.”

Merlin isn’t sure if Uther will go along with this plan, but he feels some of the knots in his chest begin to uncoil. Arthur will make Camelot a home for him, too, one day, he feels surer than ever. And one day soon, Merlin promises himself, Arthur will know why he has to.

“Why are you smiling?” Arthur asks, perplexity in his voice.

Merlin snaps back to attention, realizing Arthur has been looking at him and his silly, smitten grin. He knows he’s going to say something corny, but he doesn’t care. It’s been an emotional day. “It’s just—you’re going to be a great king one day, Arthur. Truly—the best the land has ever known.”

Arthur smiles at him, more in wonder than happiness, but it’s nice nonetheless after everything that’s happened. "You’re a strange man, Merlin, but a good one, and a good friend. You’ve helped me see that magic is part of me, part of this kingdom, and I won’t forget it. Thank you.”

The warmth in Merlin’s chest spreads a little more widely. “Glad I could help,” he says.

And he is. He really is.

 


End file.
